My Hiding Place

I found this photo of me from a few years ago—young, beautiful, with life shining through my eyes.

But I am human. Time has softened me; my body has changed and so has my heart. The things I once cared for are no longer my priorities. I no longer hunger for earthly things, even in the personal realm. My eyes have seen a greater glory—the quiet radiance that comes from a spirit sustained by the Water of Life.

So, like the last roses of summer, I've changed in many aspects of life...

I find solace in being home; alone and hidden among my many plants. There is something deeply comforting about surrounding myself with living things that grow slowly, faithfully, without hurry or applause. Their presence softens the noise of the world and reminds me that life does not need to rush to be meaningful. 

At home, time feels different. The days unfold with a quieter rhythm, measured not by demands but by light, water, and patience. I tend to my plants the way I now tend to my soul—more attentively, less forcefully, trusting the process rather than controlling the outcome.

This space has become my refuge. Among leaves and roots, I breathe more freely. I listen more closely. I am no longer drawn to what once seemed urgent or necessary. Instead, I find beauty in stillness, in care, in the slow work of becoming.

Here, surrounded by green and silence, my heart rests. And in this resting, I am gently reminded that growth—true growth—often happens quietly, unseen, nurtured by faith, patience, and light.

And so I remain here, grateful for this season of inward bloom, where life no longer needs to prove itself—only to be faithfully tended.